Flaming Sword
by Bookworm Gal
Summary: Aziraphale remembered what happened. He remembered moving. He remembered the blade sliding in, sharp and sudden. He remembered pain. And then… "I died, didn't I?" he asked.
1. Chapter 1

**Looking at all of my other "Good Omens" fics, I realized that I kept hurting and almost killing Crowley in a variety of different ways. And to be honest, that isn't fair. That realization sparked off the idea for this story.**

Flaming Sword

There was nothing to see. Only endless empty darkness. There was no form. No shape. Nothing.

And yet he almost felt like there was something. Something immaterial and metaphysical. Something meant to bind him tight. But it seemed stretched and loosening. Not quite fraying, but it was weakening and growing thin. From a thick cable to a rope. And it thinned further, from a rope until it began to resemble yarn thread. A weakening and failing connection to… to…

What was he connected to?

"EXISTENCE. THAT IS YOUR CONNECTION TO EXISTENCE, PRINCIPALITY AZIRAPHALE."

Principality Aziraphale… Was that him? It sparked a memory or two. A creature of holy light and flame, of turning wheels, of gold and ivory, of numerous eyes, of white wings, and of Her love and grace nestled at the core. A human-shaped entity with blond hair, pale and well-worn clothes, books, and hands that fumbled, twisted, and fretted. Both were him.

But not now. He wasn't like that in the endless darkness. Those parts of him were far away. He was… He was a small guttering light. And the dimmer he grew, the more that immaterial thread weakened and…

Wait… Who spoke before?

"YOU KNOW ME. YOU KNOW ME AS A CONCEPT AND YOU KNOW ME AS AN ENTITY. BUT I TAKE NO INSULT IF YOU HAVE FORGOTTEN FOR A MOMENT. MANY FIND THIS EXPERIENCE TO BE DISORIENTING."

A dark shape in the not-quite-empty darkness. Dressed in black robes. Humanoid. Skeletal. Then wings unfolded. Angel wings, but not ones of feathers. Wings of night. Wings that Aziraphale could sense more than see in this strange place. And even if the thin thread didn't truly exist except as a concept to better understand what was happening, one skeletal hand rested on the weakening connection. Waiting patiently.

Azrael. Creation's Shadow. The Angel of Death.

"Oh," he said quietly, his voice swallowed by the emptiness.

"—_ngel? No, no, no, please, no_—"

He knew that voice. It felt close, but at the same time… not. The sound was distant, faint, and quiet. So far away, but real. Crowley. He knew that voice and it triggered more memories. Aziraphale remembered what happened.

He'd gone to Crowley's flat, concerned when he didn't show up earlier. Crowley _always_ showed up. Especially after the Apoca-Oops. He went to his flat and found Hastur. A duke of Hell, more concerned with revenge than Hell's semi-official order to ignore the pair. He found Hastur, glancing up in surprise from where he'd pinned Crowley against the wall. From where he was hurting Crowley. There was a fight; Hastur more powerful than them individually, but the pair more creative and outnumbering him. They wounded him somehow. Luck. But Crowley was knocked down and there was a blade. A demonic blade forged in hellfire, crafted like the angelic counterparts to wound the true self within the corporeal body. Aziraphale saw the blade turn towards the downed Crowley…

He remembered moving. He remembered the blade sliding in, sharp and sudden. He remembered pain. And then…

"—_need to open your eyes. Please, angel, wake_—"

"I died, didn't I?" he asked.

That realization should have hurt more. He should have been shocked, scared, heartbroken, filled with regret, _something_. He should have felt something and yet his only reaction was a feeling that could described as a weak "oh" and a shrug. Which was a little odd when he had no form, let alone shoulders to shrug. But Aziraphale couldn't seem to scrounge up any stronger reaction as his light guttered like a candle burned down to the end of its wick.

"DYING, PRINCIPALITY AZIRAPHALE," corrected Azrael, skeletal fingers brushing along the connection now no thicker than embroidery thread. "YOU STILL EXIST UNTIL THIS FINAL CONNECTION IS SEVERED. BUT THE OUTCOME IS INEVITABLE. YOU ARE DYING FROM A DEEP WOUND TO YOUR TRUE SELF, ONE TOO GRAVE TO HEAL BY ANY HUMAN, ANGELIC, OR DEMONIC MEANS." He paused a moment before adding, "TAKE COMFORT IN THE FACT THAT YOU ARE FAR ENOUGH ALONG THAT YOU CAN NOT FEEL ANY PAIN. DESPITE WHAT SOME MAY BELIEVE, I AM NOT CRUEL AND DO NOT TAKE PLEASURE IN ANYONE'S SUFFERING."

Outside of the end of the world, Death wasn't actually that bad of an entity. He merely represented something that all living creatures wanted to avoid for as long as possible. He truly was the ultimate neutral party.

And Aziraphale knew that some things were beyond the power of any angel or demon to change. Some deaths could be stopped or reversed in mortal creatures. A brief miracle before too much time passed, if the damage was not too great. After all, it took a moment or two for death to really settle in and take hold once the heart stopped and breath left the body. Humans had even figured out how to sometimes save each other in that state without miracles. They were so clever and creative.

But other deaths were impossible to affect. Trying to change their fate was the equivalent of fighting Death itself and that could not be done. No one could defeat Death and only She had the power to command Death to ignore his duty. Not even the most powerful angel or demon could stop Death when he came to collect someone that he was determined to reach.

If Azrael said that Aziraphale was dying and could not be saved, then there was no point denying or arguing.

"What happens now?" he asked quietly. "I'm not human and this isn't discorporation. I won't be returning to Heaven. What happens to an angel when they die?"

"THAT IS A QUESTION THAT I CANNOT ANSWER. JUST AS I CANNOT TELL ALL THE HUMANS WHO ASK ME WHERE THEIR SOULS WILL GO WHEN THEIR TIME HAS COME. IN THAT WAY, I AM FAIR TO MORTALS, ANGELS, AND DEMONS. I AM THERE FOR THE END OF LIFE. NOT WHAT COMES AFTER."

"—_ngel, don't you dare. Hold on. Please hold on or I'll sell all your books. All of them. And_—"

Faint and distant, he heard Crowley's voice. Frantic, angry, scared, desperate, and strained. Aziraphale hated hearing him sound like that. But there was nothing that he could do. He couldn't comfort the demon because there was no time left.

The faint connection to existence seemed as thin and frail as spiderweb silk. A mere cobweb. And the weak light that flickered and faded, the light that was _Aziraphale_, was on the verge of being extinguished completely. Over six thousand years of existence and now it was over.

But before the immaterial thread broke completely and before the last of the dim light vanished, something dark and burning latched onto him. Wrapped around the light and held tight, feeding strength into the glow. Anchoring him to existence. Vast amounts of power holding him back from dying. Demonic energy.

Crowley.

"—_on. Just stay with me. I've got you. I'm not letting you go. I can fix this. I_—"

"DOES HE REALLY THINK THAT HE CAN STOP WHAT IS HAPPENING?" asked Azrael, sounding mildly confused. "DEATH IS NOT THAT EASILY THWARTED. THE DEMON CROWLEY MUST RECOGNIZE THAT WHAT HE IS DOING IS FUTILE."

Apparently Crowley didn't care that what he was attempting should be impossible. Aziraphale could feel how much power that the demon was pouring into him. Keeping him bound to existence. Keeping the guttering light lit. He knew that Crowley was stronger than he normally seemed, rarely using his full strength. He pulled himself, Aziraphale, and Adam completely out of the normal flow of time during the near Apocalypse. And now the demon was using that strength to force Death to hold off a little longer.

Crowley always specialized in the impossible.

"—_with me. Stay with me. You're stronger than this, angel. Don't you even think of_—"

The faint and distant voice sounded choked and strained. Struggling to speak.

"Oh, Crowley," he murmured.

"HE CANNOT HEAR YOU. REGARDLESS OF WHAT FOOLISHNESS THAT THE DEMON IS ATTEMPTING, YOUR WORDS CANNOT REACH HIM. AND HIS EFFORTS ARE MERELY DELAYING THE INEVITABLE. YOU ARE STILL DYING, PRINCIPALITY AZIRAPHALE."

"—_can fix this. I can fix this, angel. It wasn't supposed to be you. It's my fault. It should have been_—"

"That's not true. It wasn't your fault. I wanted to keep you safe. I wanted to protect you," said Aziraphale, even knowing that his words would never reach him. "What happened to me… it wasn't your fault."

Maybe Crowley could do what he claimed, despite Azrael's assertions to the contrary. Maybe he could fix this. The demon could certainly heal physical injuries. With all the times that he covered for Aziraphale's blessings during the Arrangement, Crowley probably had more experience with healing than any other demon. And _yes_, healing corporeal bodies was different than healing damage to an angelic true form. And _yes_, occult and ethereal powers tended to not work as well on each other. Opposite forces and all that. But Crowley was smart, talented, and creative. Aziraphale wanted to believe in him.

"—_can't do this. You can't do this. Please don't take him. Don't take my angel. 'S not right. He doesn't deserve_—"

Crowley's distant and faint voice sounded worse. Slower and shaking. Cracked and broken, sharp edges cutting deep. Tight and choking. And he wasn't speaking to Aziraphale now. Equal parts accusing and pleading, Crowley was addressing someone else. But even as his desperate words continued, so did the demonic power being poured into Aziraphale.

Though there didn't seem to be as much of that energy as before.

"—_n't take Aziraphale. He's brave and good and everything that Heaven is supposed to be, but __**isn't**__. He's the best of Your angels. Don't let him_—"

The flow of demonic energy was still there, binding Aziraphale to existence and fueling the dim guttering light. But there was less now. Less energy flowing into the angel. But not because Crowley was stopping. Aziraphale could feel that much. He was still offering as much strength as he could. Crowley was simply running out.

The feeling of dull acceptance that previously coated his thoughts was pushed back by a sharp spike of worry through Aziraphale.

"**What a rare experience. A demon praying to Me to spare the life of an angel? Very few of the Fallen would ever dream of such a thing and very few angels would give them a reason. It would be accurate to call this moment 'unique.'**"

Shock and awe jolted through Aziraphale. How could he have ever believed that he was surrounded by empty darkness? Because She was there and he abruptly realized that She had always been there. Bright, glorious, and beyond description. There were no words. She was everything. Love, mercy, and forgiveness. She was endless, eternal, and far beyond the comprehension of even Her angels.

And Aziraphale had heard Her speak. After such a very long time, She had spoken.

"My Lord," he whispered in awe.

"**Aziraphale, where is the flaming sword which was given to you?**"

Even six thousand years after the first time that She asked him that question, Aziraphale wanted to duck his head in embarrassment. Which was difficult without a head or an actual form. But this time he couldn't lie, even by avoiding the topic.

"The deliveryman took it with him after Armageddon failed to occur. If War has reformed, she may have hunted it down again," he said solemnly. "Otherwise, I don't know."

She was too bright, too glorious, and too awe-inspiring for a mere principality to truly see Her, but Aziraphale could feel Her smile. A small, mysterious, and mildly bemused smile.

"**That was always the trouble when speaking with My angels. They take literal what should be metaphorical and treat straightforward instructions as vague suggestions open to interpretation. Of course, humans make the same types of mistakes as well. It is certainly part of the reason why the Great Plan went 'off the rails' the moment that My attention was elsewhere.**"

"So… you don't mean the literal flaming sword? You mean a metaphorical… sword? I don't understand, my Lord."

"**When you stood on the walls of Eden, the weapon assigned to you already gone, I sent you a gift. Something to defend you and to remain at your side. Something strong and dangerous to those who would harm you. Forged in hellfire, burning with questions, tongue sharp enough to cut, and always prepared to keep you safe. And if that was too subtle, his red hair and yellow eyes should remind you of fire.**"

Cold shock washed over him. He knew what She was describing, but Aziraphale couldn't seem to wrap his head around it. The entire idea sounded impossible.

"Crowley," he whispered. "You mean Crowley. When You asked where my flaming sword was back in Eden, You were asking where _he_ was."

"**He is your flaming sword, meant to protect and defend. But you are his bright shield in return, meant to strengthen and guard.**"

Which meant that She approved of their friendship from the start. Part of him always hoped that She would understand, but it was reassuring to know for certain.

Though Her words also stirred a feeling of guilt in him. He wasn't sure that he'd done a very good job of being a shield for Crowley, whatever that might mean. Aziraphale certainly didn't rescue and protect Crowley nearly as much as the other way around. And he knew that he'd hurt the demon with his words, on purpose and on accident, more times than he liked to remember. That was already bad enough. Thinking about all the times that he emotionally stabbed someone so dear to him already made the angel feel horrible, but now he had the added guilt that he'd somehow let Her down too.

"**Where is your flaming sword, Aziraphale? The one that was given to you?**"

The question brought his attention back to his more immediate situation. He'd been too distracted by Her presence to notice anything else. But now Aziraphale remembered that Death lurked beside him, waiting patiently. And he noticed a change in the offered strength anchoring him to existence.

It wasn't just a normal demonic miracle anymore. That source felt nearly depleted. Whatever personal wellspring of power that Crowley might have accessed to, that was already gone. But Crowley kept pouring energy into Aziraphale, keeping the flickering light lit despite everything. Energy that wasn't power from Hell meant for miracles.

This was something deeper.

"—_can't lose him. Please, if You ever cared about him, let Aziraphale live. I'll do anything You ask. Just… Take me. Not him. He's_—"

Sorrow and exhaustion filled the distant voice. But the tired and shaking words didn't stop. Nor did the offered strength that he poured into Aziraphale. Strength that the demon couldn't possibly spare. Not so much.

"THE DEMON CROWLEY CANNOT CONTINUE HIS EFFORTS FOR MUCH LONGER," said Azrael evenly. "HE IS NO LONGER USING POWER DRAWN FROM HELL TO SUSTAIN YOU, PRINCIPALITY AZIRAPHALE. HE HAS ALREADY EXHAUSTED THOSE RESERVES. HE PRESERVES YOUR LIFE WITH HIS OWN. IF HE DOES NOT STOP SOON, I WILL CLAIM BOTH OF YOU THIS VISIT."

No.

No, no, _no_.

Aziraphale had no form, no limbs to struggle with, but he immediately tried to pull free. To tear loose of the weakening bonds to existence. To break the connection before it was too late. But that only caused the demonic energy to wrap around tighter.

Demonic energy. Or rather, Crowley's life. The strength of his own existence. He was burning himself out trying to keep Aziraphale from falling into Azrael's custody. And the angel could not bear the idea of dragging Crowley down with him.

"Let me go," begged Aziraphale desperately. "Please, Crowley."

"**He will not stop. But you already know that, Aziraphale**," She said. "**Your flaming sword will burn himself out trying to keep you from Azrael's care. He has already made his decision. He will accept nothing less than your survival or his own destruction.**"

"Unless I can break free before he kills himself trying to save me," said Aziraphale, still struggling and pulling away from the connection Crowley forged to hold him in existence. "He won't be destroyed if I die before he…"

"—_n't let him die. Please don't do this. It's my fault… I'm sorry, Aziraphale. I_—"

Still fighting and yet unable to tear himself from the weakening connection, Aziraphale whispered, "Please, Lord. I know that I am dying and I accept it. If it is part of Your plan for me, so be it. But, please… Please stop Crowley before it is too late. He's holding me in existence. Please break that connection before it is too late. Let me die before he is destroyed in the process."

Maybe it was because he had no form, no throat to tighten or breath to catch, but the words came out steadier than he expected. Aziraphale didn't particularly want to die. He didn't want to be destroyed as if he'd never existed in the first place. But that was beyond his ability to change. Azrael was already standing by to reap him. He'd already accepted what his fate would be. But Aziraphale _refused_ to let that happen to Crowley. And if he couldn't stop the demon from pouring every shred of his strength and life into the useless endeavor, then he could only hope that She would listen to his plea. She was Crowley's only chance.

"**And if your demise should cause him to seek out his own destruction regardless?**" She asked calmly, even as her question brought back memories of a horrifying request and a thermos handed over reluctantly decades later. "**Your flaming sword was not made to be cast aside or left behind. He does not shine as bright alone.**"

Frantic and desperately trying not to imagine Crowley doing something impulsive and terrible, Aziraphale begged, "Then let him forget me. As if I never existed. Or have Crowley think that I did something cruel and that he hates me so that he'll be _glad_ I'm gone. He can forget me. He can hate me. Whatever it takes. Please, Lord, just don't let him die. Not because of me. Don't let him die like this. He can hate me. Just as long as he's safe."

He had nothing to offer Her. Aziraphale had absolutely nothing. He had no strength left. No knowledge to trade. He couldn't even offer up his own life in exchange. His existence was hanging by a thread. A thread that he desperately wanted to sever. All that he had was Crowley's distant voice reminding him of what he could lose.

Aziraphale knew that he had nothing that he could offer, even if She was the type to bargain with Her angels. Which She was not. If She had been, then perhaps something could have been worked out with Lucifer and the others before the Rebellion and the Fall. But then, how would one make a deal with eternity and infinity? How could you offer anything to one who is all-knowing and all-powerful? She did not make deals and bargains with Her angels.

But that didn't mean She was uncaring. She could be kind and She could be merciful. The strength of Her fury was mirrored by the depths of Her love. And Aziraphale hoped that She would show Crowley at least that much mercy.

He was a demon. He had Fallen. But perhaps She could still show him a little mercy.

"**One praying for you to live while you ask to die**," She said calmly. "**I will not alter his memories, Aziraphale. His mind, his thoughts, and his decisions will remain his own. And if you want your existence to end before he burns himself out, that will be your decision.**"

"I can't," said Aziraphale weakly. "I've tried. I can't."

Drawing closer to the faint and flickering light that was the dying angel, Azrael said, "THEN THE DEMON CROWLEY WILL SOON FALL INTO MY CARE."

No. Please, no. Aziraphale refused. He couldn't let that happen.

"—_no… please, no… Aziraphale… I can't… I… I_—"

The broken, exhausted, and quiet words slowed and weakened as Crowley spoke. And the shared strength was almost gone. The frail connection to existence was growing thin again. But Crowley didn't let go. He didn't stop.

Crowley was killing himself trying to do the impossible and yet wouldn't stop.

"I'm sorry," murmured Aziraphale before throwing everything into a final attempt to break free.

It was sudden and unexpected. And Crowley had already used nearly all of his strength. He held tight, but it wasn't enough. And with an indescribable sensation of something snapping, Aziraphale tore away. A sudden move from Death and the guttering light went dark.

Oh… That felt strange. Like he was coming apart, his mind unraveling around the edges. Everything hazy and cloudy. Azrael somehow held whatever was left of him. It wasn't so bad. Death. Just… different.

Was this what… falling asleep felt like?

"ETERNAL REST," said Azrael, his voice sounding strangely fuzzy now. "YOUR TIME IS OVER, PRINCIPALITY AZIRAPHALE. REST NOW."

Did angels simply… fade away? Felt like it. Might be nice. Just… disappear…

Wait… He'd been… worried? About… someone…

…Crowley?

"I SHALL NOT BE COLLECTING HIM THIS EVENING."

Good… That was… good…

He was… drifting away. Fading. Like his memories.

Nothing. He felt like… nothing.

"**Aziraphale**," She said, forcing him to pay attention despite barely remember who he used to be. "**Guardian of the Eastern Gate. Principality. Protector of Earth and Humanity.**"

Was that… him? He tried to hold onto that identity a little longer. Everything kept slipping away.

A soft and gentle sensation. Like a parent… brushing back his hair.

Did he… used to have hair? A shape?

Hazy… Can't remember…

"**You made a sacrifice out of mercy and kindness,**" She continued. "**He prayed to Me when he had no reason to believe that I would listen, an act of faith and hope. And both of your decisions were made from love. Neither of you can accept a world that does not include the other.**" There was a feeling of a bemused smile. "**What am I going to do with the pair of you?**"

Didn't matter. He was… He…

"**Despite everything that has happened, you are both still Mine. My bright shield and My flaming sword. You have a role yet to play in My Plan. And one should not exist without the other**," She said mysteriously. "**Your own side. The existence of one bound to the other.**"

"ARE YOU TRYING TO MAKE MY JOB MORE COMPLICATED ON PURPOSE?"

"**Not that complicated, Azrael. Make certain that you put everything where it belongs before you move on. What needs to be done shall be.**"

"VERY WELL. BUT AFTERWARDS, I SHALL RETURN TO MY MORE USUAL DUTIES. I AM BUSY ENOUGH WITH THE TASKS THAT YOU ORIGINALLY GAVE ME WITHOUT THESE DISTRACTIONS."

Talking… Who…? Don't… understand…

Can't focus…

Drifting away… apart…

Then there was an uncomfortable jolt, and he could feel discomfort again, before a warm and bright light engulfed him. And then darkness swept in.

**This was originally meant to be a one-shot. But it was getting a bit long, so I decided to split it in half. I hope you don't mind.**


	2. Chapter 2

**And now for the other half of the story. I hope that you didn't mind the cliffhanger too much.**

Waking up felt strange and disorienting to the angel. He wasn't completely certain if that was normal or not. Without the need for sleep, Aziraphale never gained much experience with awakening afterwards. His limbs felt heavy and his body ached. And there was another ache, a deeper one than his corporeal body. The fog in his mind was slow to lift, making his thinking sluggish. Was this what waking up should feel like?

He didn't immediately open his heavy eyelids. Moving anything felt like a bad idea. There wasn't any intense or overwhelming pain, though he halfway thought that there should be. But the dull ache was discouraging enough on its own. And there was a weight across his chest.

But he was alive. Aziraphale's memories settled into place as the haziness in his head cleared. He remembered dying and what happened. He remembered seeing Azrael and Her. Aziraphale knew that he died. He knew that his existence had ended in the most permanent way possible. And yet he was alive. Why?

While everything ached to an extent, the worst of the dull pain was concentrated in a specific area. His chest hurt where the blade sank it. No longer sharp and cruel, as it was when he was stabbed. This felt duller and more manageable. More like a lingering memory of the attack. And the ache in his true form would have come from the same strike.

He wasn't quite ready to turn his senses inward to examine the damage. Not yet. But the wounds weren't killing him anymore. And he didn't feel as weak as he should have. He was tired, but not completely exhausted. He might even be able to pull off a small miracle or two if necessary. The healing and the strength were a gift from someone far more powerful and Aziraphale had his suspicions. The entire situation felt overwhelming.

But as Aziraphale tried to come to terms with what had happened, he remembered. Crowley. Was Crowley all right?

He wrenched his eyes open and immediately winced at the light, regretting his decision. The flat wasn't the brightest place, but the room where Crowley kept his plants needed a bit more light. That was where the majority of the fight happened. He remembered several of the houseplants were knocked over in the struggle. It felt strange to wake up there. It reminded him that the fight wasn't that long ago.

The first thing that Aziraphale saw as his vision cleared was a torn black sleeve and red hair. _Crowley_. He was sprawled limply across the angel's chest, as if he'd been crouched over Aziraphale before collapsing into unconsciousness. Beneath the cuts and bruises that Hastur left behind, Crowley looked impossibly pale. His skin almost looked gray and if he was breathing, it was too shallow and faint for Aziraphale to notice. But they didn't need to breathe; they did it out of habit and their physical forms were used to it, but they wouldn't discorporate without it. And if Aziraphale focused closely on the limp form on his chest, he could barely make out the feeling of a heartbeat. Too slow and weak to be healthy for a human, but he could feel it.

Then, just to be certain, Aziraphale anxiously reached out with his angelic senses. A wan and frail demonic presence. Not fading or worsening. Just utterly exhausted with almost no energy left. Worn away until only a shadow of his former strength. Barely enough to keep his corporeal form intact. But he was alive.

Aziraphale slowly pushed himself up on his elbows, raising his head a little from the floor. Stiff and heavy limbs pushed himself back until at least part of his back rested against the wall. Crowley's limp body slid down Aziraphale's stomach with the new angle until he was nearly sprawled across his lap or the chilly floor. But Aziraphale freed up one arm to help hold the weak and unconscious demon, his palm resting on the back of his dark jacket and keeping him in place. He wanted to keep Crowley close and comfortable. And with a slightly better angle, Aziraphale could take better stock of the situation.

There was blood. Quite a lot of it. Dark red from his corporeal body, but he also saw large pools that were drying from gold to something almost resembling a dull bronze. That would have spilled from his true form being severely wounded. Both were sickening to stare at for too long. There was too much of both colors wherever his eyes fell and he was trying not to immediately use his limited strength to miracle them away. Aziraphale's clothes were ruined: stained by the drying blood and ripped by the blade. And Crowley's hands were coated. As if he'd been trying to stem the bleeding while using every shred of his demonic power to try and save him. The visual image was far too clear in his mind and almost certainly accurate, causing Aziraphale to shiver.

But as he tried to rip his eyes away from the stains, Aziraphale caught sight of something under his ruined clothes. He pulled slightly at the ragged tear and saw a smooth gold line along his chest. Right where he'd been stabbed earlier. Aziraphale had seen gold marks on the corporeal forms of other angels, though mostly on the higher ranks with greater amount of power than him. They were places where the physical bodies couldn't completely contain the celestial forms within and tiny glimpses of their inhuman nature leaked out.

…Well, when he had been bleeding out in multiple ways, he wasn't technically containing his true form properly. The drying golden stains on his clothes, on Crowley's hands, and on the floor proved that. He just didn't remember injuries such as his being the cause of the other angels' marks. Or perhaps they never mentioned it. Regardless, Aziraphale knew it would take some time to get used to it. And if it bothered him too much, there were ways to disguise the mark like the other angels did when visiting Earth. But it didn't seem too bad. Almost like a new scar for a human.

That thought caused Aziraphale to turn his sights inwards. To draw on his angelic senses. He Looked at his true self nestled within his physical form. A glowing core filled with Her love and grace, bright and burning. Four wheels, ivory and gold, turning around the holy flame and light. White wings and numerous eyes that could see far more than any human. Everything exactly as it should be.

At first, Aziraphale couldn't see any sign of what happened to him. Then he saw the small differences. Another smooth golden line along his bright core, the only sign of the fatal wound that no longer existed. After finding such a mark on his chest, Aziraphale had expected to see one on his true form as well. But then he found a thin tendril coiled around the core of himself, wrapping around so that it crossed the new golden scar as if trying to hold him together. A tendril as thin as spider silk, but dark. Demonic. Familiar.

Crowley. It felt like the smallest part of Crowley remained coiled protectively around the deepest part of himself. As if a tiny piece of the demon remained behind after he poured all his strength and nearly his life into the act of preserving the angel. Or as if someone intentionally placed that dark tendril, which felt like mischief and smooth scales, deep inside Aziraphale for a specific purpose. And that made him remember Her words.

_The existence of one bound to the other._

What did She do?

Following a hunch, Aziraphale looked more closely at the unconscious demon's true self. He Looked at what lay beneath the surface of his human form. Still weak and exhausted, worn away to the faintest dark glow. His demonic presence barely there. His strength was yet spent by his earlier efforts. But Aziraphale knew what he was looking for and found it. Wrapped around a dark core that burned faintly with demonic energy, surrounded by serpentine spirals. He found it there. A thin thread of holy fire that somehow didn't scorch the demon. A piece of Aziraphale resting within Crowley as if it belonged, curled around the demon. Like it was trying to shield the tired and fragile creature from anything that might intend him harm.

Aziraphale hadn't expected any of this. He would have never considered the idea. It didn't seem possible. He wasn't certain how either of them was meant to handle the change. But the implications of what She'd done was there. Clear as day and undeniable.

He opened his eyes again, wishing that he had the strength to move them both somewhere more comfortable. The floor felt chilly. Aziraphale's clothes were tacky with blood stains, just like the floor and the discarded blade that had been tossed aside at some point. A distant part of him wondered why the red and gold didn't combine into a muddy shade of orange; they behaved like water and oil, refusing to mix. And in the far corner of the room was a crumbled shape that appeared to be the former Hastur, either discorporated or dead. Not exactly a comforting sight either way. And the houseplants…

Aziraphale blinked in surprise. All the houseplants, even those knocked over or in broken pots, were leaning towards them. Or more specifically, they were leaning toward Crowley as if he was the sun. It wasn't even subtle. One of the ivy-like plants had even stretched out a vine towards the demon. If Aziraphale didn't know any better, he might almost think that the houseplants were worried about the silent figure sprawled across his stomach.

And, despite knowing that he was alive and certainly not growing worse, he didn't like seeing Crowley in this condition either. But if She gave the angel some of his strength back, why shouldn't Aziraphale use it to help Crowley? Especially when it was his fault that Crowley was in that state.

A gentle healing miracle sank into the demon under his palm, coaxing a little more energy into Crowley. It was small and the attempt made Aziraphale's head spin. But it worked far easier than an angelic miracle should have worked on a demon. There should have been more resistance. Further evidence for his suspicions.

But the important thing was that Aziraphale could tell that his efforts were having an effect. He felt the faint demonic presence strengthen. He felt Crowley take a deeper breath, his corporeal body falling back on the long-established habit now that he had the energy for it. Breathing and a steadier heartbeat. And after a few moments, his skin lost its gray tint. Aziraphale couldn't do much, but he could at least nudge him a little closer to recovery.

Perhaps he wasn't much of a shield, but Aziraphale could help a little.

Several minutes passed in relative silence. Then the tiniest movement caught Aziraphale's attention. A flutter of eyelids. Aziraphale held his breath.

Crowley's sunglasses had long since been knocked aside and lost, which left his expression open and easy to read as he regained consciousness. Aziraphale could see every flicker of emotion as they unfolded impossibly fast.

Yellow eyes opened the smallest crack, exhausted and unfocused. Bleary confusion lasted for no longer than a heartbeat. Then he focused on what was directly in front of his face. Crowley's bloodstained hands. And Aziraphale could tell the instant that Crowley remembered what happened. His reaction startled the angel into silence.

In that brief instant, something deep inside Crowley seemed to be breaking. His eyes clenched shut, fresh tears cut new paths through the already-dried ones on his cheeks, and his face completely crumbled. The grief and sorrow felt like a physical presence, nearly suffocating to be near. Even witnessing it took Aziraphale's breath away. He couldn't bear seeing the demon hurting so much. As the first hint of a choked sob hit, Aziraphale managed move his hand from Crowley's back to grab his wrist.

His head didn't snap up in surprise; Crowley's strength hadn't recovered that much. But his breathing hitched and his eyes shot open. He looked at the fingers gripping his wrist. Slowly, Crowley's yellow eyes traced their way up until they found Aziraphale's reassuring smile.

Soft and hesitant, he whispered, "Aziraphale?"

"It's all right." Aziraphale shifted his awkward position a little until he could cradle the demon's upper body against his chest. "I've got you."

With a tiny wordless sound, Crowley buried his face in the angel's shoulder as his hand fumbled clumsily at Aziraphale's chest. Searching for the wound. Desperately looking for the injury that had been there before, even if he couldn't bear to actually look. And any tears or silent sobs were hidden away. Aziraphale let him do as he wished. He held Crowley close and waited for the heartache and relief to calm. Aziraphale held him close until he could almost forget the broken expression he'd seen on Crowley's face.

"Are you all right, Crowley?" he murmured gently.

His shoulder shaking with either suppressed laughter or sobs, Crowley asked, "Am _I_ all right? Angel, I… I thought you were _dead_. I thought you were gone…" He took a shuddering and exhausted breath. "I thought I lost you, but you're _here_…"

Aziraphale desperately wanted to pull his wings out and mantle them around the demon. Crowley wouldn't be this open and vulnerable if he wasn't completely exhausted, physically and emotionally. He wanted to make Crowley feel safe and reassured. He wanted to erase the pain that he'd caused Crowley. He wished that he could tell Crowley that nothing happened and let the remaining horror and tension melt out of the demon. He wanted to protect Crowley from the heartache just as he wanted to protect him over the millennia from the fury of Hell, from holy water, and from the demon's own lack of care for his own safety. But no matter how much he wanted to protect him, Crowley deserved the truth.

"I did die," he admitted softly.

Crowley didn't look up, even as the words made him shudder. If anything, he buried his face further into the angel's shoulder. And he kept shivering. The fabric didn't completely muffle the small and broken sounds. Broken and terrified by what he was hearing. As if hearing the words made the warm and present Aziraphale a little less real. As if the admission could transform everything that Crowley felt and saw into a hallucination and he might come to his senses to find an empty corporeal body, all sign of the angel extinguished despite his best efforts. After all, the blood staining Crowley's hands was just as real.

"It was only for a moment or so, but it did happen. I saw Azrael when he came for me," he continued, trying to sit up a little straighter while using the wall to support them. "He came for me, though you managed to delay Death for a time at great risk to yourself. And She spoke to me. After thousands of years of silence, She spoke to me."

"She spoke to you?" whispered Crowley, reluctantly pulling away enough to look Aziraphale in the eye. The stunned awe and confusion on his face was easier to face than the earlier sorrow. "What did She say, angel?"

Trying to reposition Crowley across his lap into a more comfortable position for both of them while keeping the exhausted demon off the chilly floor, he said, "A few different things. She mentioned hearing your prayers on my account."

Beneath his bruises, Aziraphale could see the faintest hints of a blush. Corporeal forms could make it difficult to hide certain reactions. And no demon, no matter how disconnected from Hell that they might be, would want to admit to pleading to Her.

"In the spirit of honesty, I could hear you as well. At least part of the time," he said. "But there was something that She said. Something that She said while I was… dead."

Aziraphale couldn't miss the weak flinch or the way Crowley's eyes tightened. The angel didn't know if what he was about to tell him would calm Crowley or worsen the haunted expression.

"She said 'one should not exist without the other.' And then She said 'the existence of one bound to the other.' After that, I woke up here. Alive and whole." Aziraphale wanted to stop there, but Crowley deserved to know the rest. "Whole, but a little different than before. I believe that She is the reason I am no longer dead and I _think_ that She changed something when that happened. I think She changed something about both of us."

"Change?" asked Crowley quietly, eyes wide as he looked the angel over. "She didn't… You haven't…"

Realizing that he didn't have the best experience when it came to Her making changes and knowing what one of his fears must be, Aziraphale said, "I didn't Fall. I promise that She didn't make me Fall." Then, smiling slightly, he added, "And before you ask, you're still a demon. Not an aardvark."

"I think I'd notice otherwise," said Crowley with a weak grin. "What do you think that She did to us then?"

Aziraphale's hands toyed nervously with the edges of Crowley's clothes. He couldn't seem to help himself. It was either that or flat out wringing his hands and that would involve letting go of Crowley. And he couldn't bear the idea. Not quite yet.

"'The existence of one bound to the other,'" he repeated. "I don't know if She meant it as a blessing, a curse, or something completely ineffable, but… I think that She bound our existences to each other. We're connected. And I think that if one of us is destroyed…"

"Or maybe as long as one of us lives, both of us will survive." Crowley leaned back against the angel, relaxing slightly. "Doesn't sound that bad to me."

"You don't mind? I don't know if something like this could be changed even if we tried. Perhaps Anathema or another witch could find a loophole, but that's no guarantee. I think that what She has done will remain in place. Your existence connected to mine until the true end of days. I wasn't certain if that's something that you… that you could accept."

"Our side, angel." Then, soft enough that Aziraphale was certain that he wasn't meant to hear, Crowley murmured, "Until death do us part."

Aziraphale closed his eyes. He hadn't really thought about it in those terms until Crowley's quiet words, but now he couldn't stop. Marriages and similar ceremonies were human things. Beautiful human things of love and connection. But they were not anything that angels or demons participated in. And yet their fates were bound. They were connected on the deepest level. It was the most accurate description that Aziraphale could devise.

Did She intend that? When She placed that small piece of them in each other, binding their existences together for the rest of time, was it meant to be similar to a human marriage?

If it was, Crowley didn't apparently mind the implications.

Did Aziraphale?

…Was there anyone else that he would want to be with until the end? Was there anything that he could imagine Crowley doing that would ever drive him away permanently? He certainly would never tire of his company. He hadn't in the six thousand years that they'd known each other, and he'd desperately missed him during those decades where they didn't speak after their argument. Could he ever imagine an existence that didn't include Crowley? Even if the impossible happened and Heaven decided to someday welcome him back with open arms, it wouldn't be the same. Could Aziraphale ever truly be happy if Crowley wasn't part of his long existence? Could he imagine continuing to live in a world that didn't have the demon?

No, Aziraphale didn't mind being bound together until the end. Perhaps it would have been nice to discuss it first with Crowley, but the angel's unexpected demise rather hindered that option. And in the end, did it truly change anything?

The cool floor and the hard wall were not the most forgiving or comfortable surfaces to rest on, but Aziraphale couldn't bring himself to try moving them yet. He didn't even want to bother opening his eyes again. Not at the moment. Weariness and the lingering aches made the prospect of not moving sound wonderful. Aziraphale remained there, his arms wrapped around the exhausted demon. He doubted Crowley would stay awake much longer. Not even with the miracle and his worry giving him some temporary strength.

Crowley needed a real bed. He _deserved_ one. And honestly reclining on a softer surface sounded lovely to the angel. But for the moment, they would have to make due with the grimy and gory floor with Hastur's deceased body in the far corner. Not ideal, but at least they were both alive.

"Wasss worse this time," said Crowley shakily, his face still pressed into Aziraphale's shoulder and trying to twist away from the blood stains on the clothes.

"Hmm?" he asked. "What was?"

Hands tightening into the angel's ruined waistcoat, Crowley said, "Last time, it _hurt_. It hurt and I just wanted to let it all happen. Just let it happen and everything end. It hurt, but I… I wasn't _there_. Not until after. I sssaw the bookshop on fire and it was too late to do anything. And I didn't think anything could be worse."

Crowley's exhaustion and remaining heartache was making him talkative. The slight hissing slipping into his words added further proof of how unsteady and tired he was that evening. Otherwise Aziraphale doubted that the demon would be revealing so much.

"You were gone, the world was ending, and… and… I thought you were _gone_. I couldn't find you and I can _always_ find you. It hurt, but this was worse. I was here this time and I could do something. It wasn't too late. I was here and it ssstill wasn't _enough_. You were dying in front of me and no matter what I tried, I couldn't fix it. I was useless. And being here and useless was worse than showing up too late to even try." One hand drifted over and brushed against the now-absent stab wound, fingers trembling as they traced their way across Aziraphale's chest. "You died, angel. I watched you die right in front of me. I couldn't do anything. I can't… I can't lose you again. I couldn't bear it."

"You won't have to," he said. "Never again. That's what She did for us. You won't have to live without me and I won't have to continue without you someday. You won't lose me, Crowley. And as long as you don't try anything impulsive and dangerous that risks your life, we'll both be fine. You really need to take better care of yourself though. No more attempts at self-sacrifice. They won't work for us now."

"I'm not that bad," grumbled Crowley drowsily.

"I think you're ignoring that planned church heist of yours in the 1960s. Your lack of self-preservation is truly astounding."

Crowley made a small noise of complaint, but his grip was loosening. Aziraphale moved one hand up to run his fingers through the messy red hair. Exhaustion was pulling the demon down. He could practically feel it. After a few moments, Crowley's breathing shifted into a slower and deeper pattern of slumber.

But Aziraphale's plan to let Crowley sleep there was tossed aside the moment the angel felt him shiver. Not from fear or weariness, but the chill. And while teleportation was a trickier miracle to perform, it was short-range and he knew exactly where Crowley's bedroom was. The night after the Arma-Gonna-Fail gave him time to explore and familiarize himself with the entire layout of the flat. He knew the relative position of the space in relation to the plant room and he could easily visualize it in his mind. Aziraphale knew that it was a dumb idea and the effort left his head spinning as he lay panting on his back, but he managed to miracle the both of them to Crowley's bed.

When his vision finally settled down, but before his exhaustion could make him pass out, Aziraphale slowly shucked his ruined clothes and kicked off his shoes until he was only wearing his trousers. Tugging Crowley's coat off was more difficult. Partially because he didn't want to wake him and the unconscious demon was as difficult to move as a limp ragdoll, but mostly because Aziraphale's eyes could barely stay open. He knew that he should find something else for them to wear, but they were both exhausted and it felt more important to get out of the blood-stained clothes as soon as possible. Aziraphale even tried to clumsily scrub the drying blood off Crowley's hands with the coat sleeve, but there was a limit to what he could do without soap and water.

"Angel?" mumbled Crowley as Aziraphale pulled a blanket over him, waking up slightly despite his best efforts.

"It's all right. We're both fine," he said, sinking into the impossibly soft pillow next to him. "Get some rest."

Not sounding completely aware of his surroundings, Crowley murmured, "You died. My fault. Wasss my fault."

"No. It wasn't your fault. I promise."

"Sssupposed to be me. But you did the… self-sacrifice thing that you said. You were… human shield? Angel shield. You… ssshielded me and _died_."

Aziraphale curled up next to him, pulling the demon close before Crowley could get properly worked up again. Shield. That's what Crowley said. He described Aziraphale's actions as shielding Crowley. A bright shield to keep him safe. The thought made the angel smile.

Protecting with a sword may be flashier. More impressive. Certainly more aggressive. But a shield's entire purpose was to protect. To be strong, sturdy, dependable, and constant. Protecting with a sword was different than defending with a shield, but that was fine. As long as everyone was safe. Not just from immediate danger, but from future threats.

"I don't regret protecting you. But I'm here, Crowley. I'm right here. And no more sacrificing ourselves for each other. Won't do any good now anyway." Fighting back a yawn, Aziraphale said, "Rest, Crowley. I'm not going anywhere."

Once more, exhaustion won out and pulled Crowley down. Warm blankets, soft pillows, and the close presence of an angel holding him worked almost as well as a lullaby. Aziraphale curled closer. Sleep did not come naturally to him like it did for the demon. But it had been a long day. And with Crowley sleeping right next to him, the idea of joining him sounded wonderful.

Soon enough they would have to face the fallout of what had occurred. In the morning, they will have to dispose of the empty shell that Hastur's demise left behind and the blood stains, the sight of which will nearly send Crowley back into a panicked downward spiral despite his best efforts. They will examine the changes that She left to their true forms. Alcohol will be consumed as the demon rants about how She lost the right to mess with him the moment that he Fell, trying to hide how much the thin golden line left on Aziraphale and the permanent reminder of the fatal wound disturbed him by focusing on anger instead. There will be reassurances on both sides. And there will be acceptance of their newly-bound fates. There will be more dinner, more walks in the park, more car rides, more evenings spent in a cozy bookshop, and more time together that was nearly snatched away by a demonic blade.

But that's the future. For now, an angel and a demon sleep beside each other. They fall asleep next to other, their existences now bound together by a higher power. Their bond of six thousand years supported and even encouraged by Her. It was peaceful and quiet. Death had no place in that room. They slept, knowing that they were together and that the other was safe.

Aziraphale's flaming sword. Crowley's bright shield.

**Probably not my best work, but my brain wouldn't leave me alone once the idea popped into it. Hopefully someone out there enjoyed it. Thanks for reading.**


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